Sedona AZ (May 27, 2015) – The following has been taken from Collins Rhōg’s private journal, and reproduced exactly as it was written, by his own hand. The date has been omitted, at his request, but Collins view is always captivatingly honest, full of depth and color, heart and perseverance in times of struggle. Collins spills his soul and captures his feelings with vivid imagery and heart felt emotion that oozes from the pages of this historic text.

The following is but a portholes view, from across the room of “The Life and Times of Collins Rhōg“:

If you are new to the story, it all begins at this link (click here). In previous weeks, our readers were introduced to Rhōg’s story as written in his journal. Join us as we return to the Life and Times of Collins Rhōg, now 38, while he surveys the gates of Hell:

– Cambire, The Story Part 21 –

The sun beat upon the raceway with a fervor. Crowds of people heaved and flowed as the event was about to start. I wasn’t able to connect with Reegan.

She was riding for Kawasaki. Portland was definitely not one of her favorite tracks, it’s tight and twisty with fourteen corners that place the tires under a tremendous strain. You’ve got to be bloody careful not to overheat the left side of your tires because ten of those corners are left handers. Her Ninja was quite nimble in the twisty bits yet powerful enough to make a move when called upon. That’s paramount in Portland, there are few overtaking points.

Reegan was a force to reckon with on that track. She was a natural rider in the saddle, making few mistakes and learning the lessons when she did. Once, racing at Assen, she didn’t warm up her tires properly and ended up on the ground. I used to rib her about that. Man, she would get pissed when I brought it up!

I heard the start of the race and first spied Reegan when she zipped past, towards the front of the pack. It was the fourth lap when I saw it happen, she dove into the corner acutely leaning the bike to the left side, her knee against the tarmac when the motorcycle laid over completely like a listing ship rolling onto its side. I could see the weight of the bike, heavy on her leg as she slid along the speedway, the track violently gnawing away at her racing suit, while she helplessly straddled the motorcycle’s superstructure. The front tire was bobbling. She held fast to the handlebars. Then the rear of the motorcycle traveled forward as its center of gravity rotated, freeing Reegan from the machine and slamming her back and head down onto the track as they parted ways.

As I watched, the rest of the world became a blur. Reegan’s helmet shattered and flew off in pieces. I remember seeing her sliding alongside the bike as it slowly spun on its side. She was on her back, legs out in front hopping up and down as her heels snagged the asphalt. Then, like some macabre choreography, the motorcycle caught an edge the same moment Reegan’s heels dug in and they were both viciously catapulted, end over end. Every second became a lifetime, seeing the bike shedding bits of metal and plastic. It made two and a half revolutions, in between impacts with the track, for every one that Reegan made. A rooster-tail of fuel spewed out of the bike’s tank as it rotated furiously, spinning out of control. I heard the motorcycle’s impact, but only saw Reegan as she came to rest on the tarmac, not far from the wall.

I jumped the barrier and ran toward her. “Caution! We have a rider down!” blared the loudspeaker, overpowering a grinding noise that pulsed similar to a washing machine hard at work. Bits of plastic and metal littered the area like confetti. Reegan was sprawled out, flat on her back, her right cheek seated to the tarmac. The bike was mortally wounded and bleeding all over the track. The air was filled with the smell of the high octane racing fuel which had spilled from its breached fuel tank.

As I ran, the motorcycle in the background twisted and gnarled up against the wall, its rear wheel wobbling and producing that grinding sound as it rotated, a strange movement approached Reegan in the foreground. I felt instant fear as I watched that shadow on the track, flowing towards her, surreal, like a mirage. Time seemed to slow and every breath became a new memory. Even the tempo of the rotating tire began to resonate at a lower frequency as if forewarning of impending doom.

Later I saw news footage, a close up on Reegan lying on the ground, near the wall. She raised her head up off of the track and, as she did, tiny pebbles of asphalt dropped from her face. A few remained stuck to her cheek. Her eyes appeared heavy, you could see her exhale as she let them close. I like to think that was when she died. That moment, beneath the brilliant blue sky with white clouds, cotton balls thinly stretched and glued onto blue crape paper, her left leg folded beneath her, her right leg straight out, arms strung about and bent at the elbows, one near her hip, the other near her head, looking like a rag doll tossed from the bed and onto the floor.

The clouds were so beautiful, they didn’t move, just hovered. I could hear  voices, commotion on the track, undecipherable, the smell of petrol more prevalent. The shadow crept closer to her, like an angel of death and it seemed she was going to melt into it. I screamed her name, telling her I was coming, but I don’t think she heard me because a multitude of motorcycles screamed by us. I didn’t see them, just heard the engines as they passed, like humming birds one after another in close succession.

Reegan never heard me. She didn’t know I was coming.

The mirage had reached her. “Oh my god!” my heart screamed as it crept under her. Then there was a sound, a “whump.” I hated that noise, it was loud and deep, it came on fast and disappeared even faster, leaving a brilliant burst of flame that muted into an inferno. That was it, yes, that was it. The autopsy showed she’d been shot in the chest with a .227.

The sky was dark and rain fell from the heavens, as if the angels were uncontrollably weeping.  A fence line of shoes worn by the mourners stood in the puddled water atop the green artificial turf that descended into the dark hole beneath Reegan’s casket. I watched the pastor speak, and then looked to the sky with outstretched hands, though I heard nothing but angel’s tears bouncing off the glossy casket which reflected the clouds overhead while embracing the body of the woman I loved.

I saw Reegan’s parents, distraught and overcome with grief that crippled their souls. I saw Russ, water spilling from the brim of his hat that veiled a hateful stare, at me. I saw Greg with shoulders slumped and tears dripping off his nose as he peered at the ground and wept quietly, unaware of the roses being lovingly placed upon her coffin. Greg never looked at me. Better that than feeling Russ’s rage penetrate my already shattered soul.

As the casket lowered, Reegan’s last request, a song she had chosen so many years prior, resonated from the loudspeakers. I listened to the sound of Bjork singing “Show me forgiveness” radiate throughout the cemetery. Reegan’s ballad paused and mingled for but a moment, around every pair of rain soaked shoes, before flowing to every headstone and spire, in a slow procession that evaporated into the white noise of the cemetery’s rainfall.

– Collins Rhōg

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